


Wrought Red

by Hambone



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Forced Orgasm, Gang Rape, M/M, Religious Guilt, Rough Oral Sex, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 17:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16539305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hambone/pseuds/Hambone
Summary: The men of Yharnam are tired of seeing something they shouldn't want being flaunted around, and decide that if Alfred won't learn to be ashamed of himself, they'll have to make it so themselves.





	Wrought Red

**Author's Note:**

> Like 90% of what I wanna do for Soulsborne stuff is gangrape?? It's too easy with these games s2g
> 
> Enjoy!

    Alfred was the last Executioner. It had been a good decade since the few before him had been recruited, and it showed; his soft, youthful face bright amongst the gaunt and grizzled frowns of his compatriots. On top of that he was, despite being from a town not their own, a generally pleasant young man, a trait no others of his ilk could boast. This initially led to a great deal of distrust between him and the townsfolk of Yharnam, because no one would rightfully be that cheery during a Hunt night without secret plans, but the sentiment dissipated quickly when people began to come to the realization that, rather than being a mastermind behind the smile, Alfred was rather unfortunately dim.

    Despite the thickening of his diction under the careful tutelage of Master Logarius, the plain and simply farm boy still shone out from behind his smile, clear in the openness of his tongue and his willingness to trust. He had not come from very far, some rural village within a few days walking distance, and had come indeed at a tender young age with some sickness to be healed, before he was even old enough to produce more than a patchy stubble on his chin. It gave them years to warm to him, or at least lose some of the blatant hatred for his unusual demeanor, and in time Alfred was less an oddity and more a normal, if conspicuous, part of life.

    It quickly became clear, however, that Alfred was growing into a problem. Not because of his blinding zeal for his work, nor his foolish honesty, but because as he grew he thickened. Considerably. He was no longer the scruffy, lean lad who had come to purify his blackened blood, but a soft spoken, pretty young man. His body, invigored by long nights of Hunting, filled out beautifully, shoulders broad, chest swelling to strain the breast of his uniform. His eyes were large and heavy like a cow’s, his hair wild and gold. His waist curved, his stomach softened. Besides the physical changes, there was something exotic about a face so unmarred by the horrors of life, without the deep creases of worry in the brow and the strain of tendons kept taught along the jaw. His placid smiles and carefree chattering conjured memories of a time long ago, when the world smelled of something other than blood.

    The intoxicating effects of his company were worrisome, and so again people began to steer clear, now from self-consciousness rather than distrust. If Alfred noticed, he didn’t seem to mind, as amiable as ever in conversation when he found his way into a Hunting party, friendly and foolish. He did Hunt with the men of the town more often than his own kin, likely due to his inexperience in dealing with Vilebloods, a scourge the townsfolk knew little of but understood to be great and awful. It kept him within the public eye, and therefore within the thoughts of many who spent long nights covered in grit and gore and wishing to be home, warm, comforted. If their chilly attitude did nothing to dissuade him from mingling with those he rightfully should not, they began to realize, then something else, perhaps more direct and therefore uncouth, would have to be done about it. No citizen of Yharnam with any social sense would dare imperil their status by directly confronting him for the provocateur he was, but who was to enforce such standards once the sun had set?

    So, on cobblestones orange with evening light, a group of men spotted their target and advanced. Alfred was meandering on a corner, observing the traffic of the coming evening. Part of his role in the covenant was to keep watch for any and all those with tainted blood, and so he dutifully smiled and nodded and picked apart the crowds from his perch, taking note of any changes in behavior and scent. It was again a sign of his lower standing in the Executioners that he was positioned here, in the center of town, where no Vileblood had been sighted in at least four seasons, and even then it had been a fluke encounter. There was never much to see in these parts but prowling madmen and flesh hungry birds, dangerous to the common household but dispatched easily enough. When they came to him, his face broke in a grin, eyes bright.

    “Good evening!”

    It was almost as if he had been waiting for them, like they were old friends. He was too trusting, too wanting. It was his unknowing corruption.

    “Shall I join you tonight?”

    For a man requesting to accompany them into a bloody hell, he was awfully excited. Regardless of his company, there was a hunger for approval in him.

    “Actually, Executioner,” said one of the men, hat low over his eyes, “we believe we’ve got something you might need.”

    “Definitely,” said another, “We’ve seen how you’ve been wanting for it.”

    Alfred cocked his head, sifting the blade end of his hammer in his grip. His sluttish, sleepy gaze never so much as flickered with doubt.

    “My, my! What could I possibly be wanting for, in your eyes, when I have my Master on my side?” he chuckled good naturedly.

    “Oh, surely this doesn’t outshine your heavenly gifts,” another said, his passive tone an act so obvious anyone should have caught on, “just a little surprise you might like.”

    “After all, if you had all you needed, you’d be on the Hunt with your fellow men, would you now?”

    This seemed to bite Alfred a bit, and his grin faltered. He looked away, only briefly, still smiling awkwardly. They all started walking, not waiting to see if he’d follow, knowing he would. Like a well-trained bitch he came to heel, asking questions he received no answers for, only meaningless placations, stride unfaltering.

    “For all of you to be involved,” he said, “I really am flattered, but I don’t understand.”

    It wasn’t dark in the alley, but it didn’t matter. They wanted him to see this.

    “Just here, Executioner.”

    He wasn’t quick enough to stop the knife before it met his neck, and the chest of the man holding it pressed hard against his back.

    “You dare-!”

    He moved to pull away, but the nose of a gun tapped his temple, and the other men turned towards him, rifles drawn.

    “What is this? Have you lost your wits? I am no beast!”

    “No, but you are sick, all the same.”

    “Sick, and you’ve spread it.”

    “I’ve done no such thing!”

    They hadn’t expected him to be so quick to anger. Alfred was such a tender young man, the type to openly blush over a blunder. Now his lips were twisted to a snarl, ugly with fury, his entire face changed. His hands shook at his sides, as if he were barely restraining himself.

    “Don’t act like you don’t know what you’ve done,” said the man at his shoulder, uncaring. They moved quickly, while he was still cornered.

    “Hands behind your back.”

    “I say!” snapped Alfred. The blade at his throat pressed hard, beginning to part skin, but still he hesitated.

    “To raise your weapons against a man of the Church, you must really be fools. Even if I die here, you will be caught, and punished!”

    “You ain’t gonna die,” another voice called, “and you won’t tell no one.”

    “What?”

    Alfred was already beyond losing patience, hardly processing what he was being told because his temper filled his ears.

    “Hands,” and his arms were grabbed. Instinctively he pulled away, but the cocking of multiple hammers made him hesitate. He looked between the dark faces, roughened by lives spent Hunting. Always for beasts, he had thought, always, and yet so prepared were they for imprisoning a man. As his hands were bent behind his back, a rope wound between his wrists, he wondered if they had always been so full of sin, and he was merely blind before. They weren’t Vilebloods - he knew the smell, the sight, and the crowd was far too ugly for noble lineage, but they were, it appeared, guilty all the same. Master Logarius had appointed him Executioner, and by that right he was also judge and jury.

    They bound him well, yanking his gloves off so the rope bit his bare skin. To compensate he straightened his neck, jaw set stiffly, and gazed down at them all. He was marched forwards into the small crowd, until the men could close around him, the jaws of their trap lined with teeth.

    “What do you plan to do with me, then?” he sniffed, disdainful of them, of his own capture.

    There was no clear answer. With him bound, the men came closer, emboldened by his disarmament. It was foolish of them, for even without weapons Alfred was thick with muscle, well fed by his Master, well trained by his battles, but they still kept their guns aimed close and the man with the blade remained at his neck. His eyes darted from hand to hand to hand, waiting for an opening, or a sign of warning, but was distracted unexpectedly when one of them began to fiddle with the ties of his cape.

    “What now!”

    It mattered not what he said. The men pulled the garment from his shoulders, dropping it carelessly on the filth of the street.

    “You’re a pretty boy, Alfred,” lips pressed near his ear, the man with the knife uncomfortably close, “you must know that, at least. That you’re a temptress.”

    “I’m a w-what?”

    Rage fell to a high gasp mid-sentence as one of the men in front boldly grasped at his chest through his robes, searching for a way to undo them. Alfred squirmed backwards, unintentionally pressing himself flush against his attacker. The man chuckled huskily and pushed back, his hips rocking into Alfred’s shapely ass.

    “A whore,” said another man, “walking around here, flaunting yourself, leading the men o’ the Hunt around like a string of pearls for your enjoyment.”

    “I’ve never-! I would never do such a thing!”

    He was confused, and he was horrified. Alfred was a strict adherent to his Master’s code of law, desperate to please, to earn his place. He was just, and righteous, and yet with those things came the ever present shame of knowing that his mind and body could never truly be controlled, that he could never be the perfect disciple to His word that he desired to be. That shame had only grown with age, fed by burgeoning emotional clarity and sexual maturation, and each look of disapproval or sigh of displeasure uttered around him ate holes through his certainty. Now, there was this, a direct accusation, and as good and pure as he knew he tried to be, it affirmed something he’d always known about himself, when he lay awake at night, stirred by unholy dreams and wants, filled with self-loathing: he was a sinner. He didn’t want to be, but he was, irrevocably corrupted to the core and entirely unworthy of his position and the home and family it had given him. Entirely unworthy of his Master’s love.

    They could not properly strip him, not with his hands tied; his uniform was simply too complicated. Still they undid his cords, pushed the arms of his robes down his shoulders, trying fruitlessly to get bare access to his chest. Alfred, becoming afraid of himself, caved his chest back, turning in from the world as best he could, unable to deny them any other way without setting fingers to triggers. He growled, furious, but his face was strained like someone ill, uncertainly bleeding in.

    “Don’t be like that.”

    “You can try to hide it all you want, but we’ve already seen your true self.”

    “No, I’m not like that!”

    From behind, not the man with the knife but another, hands wound around his waist and pulled up the skirt of his tunic, searching for the drawstring to his trousers. Someone moved in to help. Alfred, unable to accept this despite several guns cold against his cheek, lunged forwards, out of the grip that held him, the knife drawing only a thin thread of blood across his Adam’s apple as he caught them all by surprise and kicked the man directly at his front in the groin.

    Surprise lent him its hand, at first. The man keeled over, howling, bowling into the rest, and as they were distracted Alfred spun on those who had been behind him and hauled his shoulder hard against the bladed man’s throat. It was a good shot, and he felt a crack, the man gagging, falling backwards, blood coloring his teeth. He turned back to the main crowd, snarling, hair falling in his eyes. Then cold steel met the back of his neck and it was over again.

    It wasn’t the muzzle this time but the handle, whipped into where skull met spine. The nerves pinched in just the right way to turn his vision black for a moment and he fell to his knees, coughing and hacking, tears knocked loose from his eyes. This time he was spared no moment of peace before they descended, ripping his head back by the hair, someone stomping vengefully on one ankle until it twisted through the boot cover. He cried out hoarsely and was pushed forwards onto his face in the mud and the blood of the alley, still trying to remember how to breathe as they bypassed the middle step and tore the cord from his waistband with a pocket knife and yanked his pants down his buttocks.

    “No-!”

    Alfred gagged when he tried to speak, his tongue swollen, hurting, coppery – had he bit himself? – scrabbling his toes into the cobblestone to push away, but they were everywhere now and it was a pointless effort.

    “You little fuck!”

    Someone kicked him in the side harshly, but before any more could be done the man was restrained by his cohort.

    “Now, now, that’s not what we’re here for, is it?”

    The man who’d kicked him (the one he had kicked) backed off, but not before spitting in Alfred’s hair. He couldn’t feel it, but he knew it was there, and that was enough. Perhaps he should have flung his head back, when someone knelt close behind him again, tugging his pants the rest of the way down his thighs, or tried to squirm between the skinny forest of legs and make a run for it, but Alfred simply quivered, unsure. Fingers wove through his hair, a man petting a dog, and lowered his head slowly but forcefully to the stinking pavestones. He tried to flatten out completely but hands on his hips kept them raised, offering him up in a less than favorable position. His ankle throbbed, and he wondered if he’d really been injured, if it would show. If the others would know when he came limping home.

    “You’ll like this.”

    It was a statement and a command. Alfred hissed through his teeth, trying to look behind himself as his sideburns turned dark with street filth. He should be complaining more, but he could think of nothing to say, no way to defend himself other than another weak, “Stop!” that went unheeded. Instead the hand that held him smoothed up across his rump, squeezing him so hard it hurt. He hiccupped in discomfort, trying to find a pair of eyes to glare at to prove he was not afraid, but he couldn’t turn his gaze high enough from down where he was laid and all he got was muddy boots and poorly hemmed pants, shifting and mumbling with anticipation.

    Getting a good hold on his buttocks, the man behind spread him wide to get a better look. Alfred did kick his heels up then, not with the intention to hurt but the instinctual reaction of shame, trying to cover himself. Before at least he had been tucked safely away, but he was maneuvered to raise his hips more, a knee shoving between his ankles to pry them apart, and everything was visible to them, everything that should remain private. It got everyone buzzing with excitement, oohing and ahhing over his mortification.

    “Pretty and pink,” said the man holding him, thumb sliding down to brush over Alfred’s asshole, to his dismay, “you really are made for this.” The very moment he was touched his fears were confirmed, a horribly uncomfortable tickle of pleasure tightening in his groin.

    “No- no one should be-!”

    It wasn’t as though he didn’t know that people did such things. Alfred had grown up in the country, after all, and contrary to the popular belief that those in the provincial lands were of innocence unmatched, he had seen and heard of what people did when there was no cityscape to watch them, no social structure to impede their wishes. Even still, this, to be thrown on his knees in the mud, this was not how humans should be. This was how animals mated, bent over one another, without rhyme or reason, soulless and sinless, but for a man who knew better, who should be better, it was wrong.

    “Here.”

    Someone from the front handed something over Alfred’s head, not to the man whose thumb continued to rub roughly along his tender muscle, maddeningly, and a moment later as he was still held bare a cold liquid was dribbled down the cleft of his ass. Alfred jumped and yelped, which elicited some laughter, beginning to hyperventilate.

    “I don’t want this!” he cried, desperate, “no matter what you may think, no matter what I may-may have led you to believe! It’s not right!” His voice began to crack as the rubbing continued, as more of whatever the viscous substance was continued to leak over him, “I-I can’t do this! I can’t!”

    “Shh,” hissed one, sounding less comforting and more like a toothless snake, “you don’t have ta’ do anything, let us do all the work.”

    “Stop it!”

    He could barely get the words out around his rapid breaths, vision bright and unclear. The thumb pushed inside him, slick and smooth, and he jerked in their grasp, not necessarily in an attempt to escape but in a sudden rigor as the shock of sensation stalled every thought in his brain. It felt wrong, an intrusion in a place never meant for that, but at the same time something was almost underwhelming for Alfred. There was no horrible pain, no flash of lightning striking him down, no break inside him as his virginity bent and snapped. He had expected more, wanted more, wanted to be punished immediately for having failed to defend himself. That want solidified in his belly, hunkered to the ground, anticipating, and he tried to look behind again to see the face of his attacker.

    The man pushed in slowly, stirring him around a little to test Alfred’s resistance. The fluid had been so cold, but the man’s thumb was hot, raising the hair along his back.

    “Pink inside, too.”

    He pulled out and Alfred was relieved for a second, still knowing that wasn’t the worst. He waited, almost as if frozen, feeling every presence around him, every pair of eyes, intimately. Then, a full finger screwed its way inside his ass. Alfred had been hoping he could suffer well, but this was such a strange, intimate thing that he couldn’t help but yelp like a kicked hound, toes again scrabbling for footing despite himself in an attempt to crawl away. It was useless; he was held fast as the man experimentally thrust his finger in a few times, more of the liquid pushing in with it. Some of the others were knelt close, watching intently, and he felt every single pair of eyes on him like a rain of needles.

    Yet it also ran deeper than that. It was not exactly a pleasurable feeling, not yet, but it was stirring around heat he knew all too well in the pit of his belly. Alfred was a good boy. He did not sin in his bed at night, even when thoughts of the glory of execution filled his heart, when his Master’s kind words laid too heavy on his brain. Good, but not perfect, for he knew to never lay a hand upon himself in lust, but had at times been burdened by such immense pressure that he’d been forced to find relief somehow, arms wrapped around his bedding, chewing the sheets to keep quiet as he humped into his pillows. It was mortifying after the fact, and he spent many late hours scrubbing his linens clean and praying for forgiveness, begging those beyond to spare him from having to confess his filthy nature to Logarius. To feel those strong hands upon him in reward or in punishment would be a blessing, but not like this, not knowing he was rotten inside. If he were forced to leave the monastery, he would lose all reason for living, and be condemned to eternal torment for his failures. He couldn’t bear that.

    Even knowing this, his body warmed to the touch, muscles relaxing to accommodate now two digits as Alfred’s jaw clenched so tightly his teeth groaned, sweat dampening his hair across his forehead. With nothing but each other to clutch, he locked his hands together, afraid even of prayer here lest the Great Ones see his debauchery. The fluid was amplifying the noise of every thrust grossly, slick, hideous sounds that made everyone around him murmur and shift their groins appreciatively.

    “There, boy, you see? This ain’t so bad.”

    One at his side pet his back like a man training his hunting pup. Worse yet, it seemed to work, with Alfred feeling so cowed and confused. He wanted to fight more, fully knowing the futility of the act, for a true man of faith would rather be laid to rest with ten pounds of lead in his body than endure such defilement, but he couldn’t. The indecision between letting himself fall victim and potentially face the wrath of the gods and the very concept of never seeing his Master again was paralyzing, and he ached for it, feverish. The fingers inside him twisted and spread, his muscles twitching around them.

    “Ah, he’s tight down here.”

    “Getting tight down there, too!”

    He knew what they meant and only had a short moment to panic before someone playfully cupped at his balls. They were right, too, for he was indeed growing hard, even like this, and the touch made him buck and shout again.

    “Don’t! Take what you must from me, but don’t touch me there!”

    The anger in his voice still lingered, but fear was tearing his tone apart. They all laughed at him, husky with a need he knew and loathed, and instead of releasing him the hand circled around his shaft gently, stroking it with the pad of a thumb.

    “There there.”

    “I said stop!” he yelled, twisting around to try and shake them, “get off me!”

    “Oh, touched a nerve?” the man cooed, and then he squeezed, hard. Whatever retort Alfred had readied was compressed into a thin whine of pain, his eyes bulging and wet.

    “You brought this on yourself,” said the man fingering him open, as if explaining a simple task to a child, “too late for complaints.”

    With that he flexed him wide, opening Alfred up for a third finger. The pressure on his cock was released, but the hand remained, a threat, and all Alfred could do was hiss his breaths in animal terror, staring ahead blindly. It should have been a good thing, that pain, something that could have cut the pleasure in half, but somehow it only heightened things, his pulse pounding in his dick and focusing his attention there. Perhaps it was because it should hurt, he thought, because it should be punishment to be treated this way, yet he found himself shifting his thighs together as the stretch began to burn inside him.

    “Good boy.”

    He squeezed his eyes shut.

    “Wonder how many fingers I could get in here,” said the man, “he’s soft.”

    “Don’t break him.”

    “I know.”

    It already felt impossibly full inside him as it was. Alfred groaned, trying not to cry as the three fingers pushed and pulled, failing when they hooked and a sharp burst of wicked pleasure tortured him. He bit his lip, hyperventilating through his snotty nose.

    “You _are_ a whore,” someone whispered in his ear, “coming apart this easy.”

    “No,” he mumbled, a string of drool connecting his lips to the pavement.

    He was fully hard now, just held there in a cruel hand, regardless of his wants. Every twitch inside his ass seemed to pulse directly to his cock, like they were connected. When the hand pushed in to the knuckle and simply remained there, stroking his insides, Alfred’s toes curled.

    “Hurry it up.”

    Ignoring the request, the man pulled his fingers back only to remove one and replace it with the index of his second hand, pulling him open so they could all see his quivering insides, hot and wet. Alfred tried to say something, anything, and only managed a series of high, “Ah-ah!” sounds.

    “More a’the slick,” and before Alfred had time to flinch back in fear, coldness itself was dribbled directly inside him. It clashed violently with the slow heat that had begun to boil within, and he caught himself before he choked out a confused moan. The man rubbed into him again, working the liquid deeper, warming it up.

    “Could probably fit my whole hand in ‘ere if I tried.”

    “Please!” Alfred quailed, mortified, “Don’t!”

    They laughed at him, but the fingers did pull out. He could feel the way his body struggled to close up, and the hot pulse of arousal the revelation hit him with made his cock jump. He was so focused on berating himself that he didn’t quite pick up on the rustling of clothing until the man’s hips pushed against his, letting him feel the slide of his engorged dick between Alfred’s ample buttocks.

    “Yeah, you feel that?”

    He didn’t wait for an answer, taking a hand to steady himself as the tip of his cock pressed Alfred’s hole.

    “Oh, by the good blood,” Alfred sobbed, pressing his face to the cobble stones. He’d been so loosened that it took very little effort for the head to pop inside. Still, it was big, and wild, and Alfred gasped raggedly. Groaning like a beast, the man rocked his hips lightly, not pushing all the way in just yet, taking in the virgin tremble of Alfred’s muscles. When he did slide in, he kept both hands planted on Alfred’s backside, holding him open so the others could see the way he stretched wide to receive him. unable to stop himself, Alfred’s hips bucked back in erratic, frightened motions, taking him in ever deeper, inviting the destruction of his chastity whole heartedly. He bit his lip and cried.

    “Tha’s good, tha’s good,” the man murmured, and when he pulled out Alfred’s insides clung to him desperately. He was merciless, not for being cruel and painful as Alfred would have expected, but for how carefully and pleasurably he fucked him. There was still the burn of being pulled open in a place that never was meant for it, an ache that shot spasms up his spine every time the man thrust in, it was heavily outweighed by the slow furor in its wake. Outweighed, but not drowned out, for even the pain seemed to feed into the ecstasy that was forced upon him, scratching the itch for punishment he held alongside his reprehensible desires.

    “Yer weeping for it.”

    He couldn’t focus, didn’t understand what they meant, at first. It wasn’t until the hand around his cock stroked again that he realized his shame. He was dripping, leaking like a whore, his sex pressed twitching to his soft underbelly.

    “N-no!”

    “Yer squirmin’ on my prick, slattern. Don’t try an deny it.”

    Forgoing all attempts to keep Alfred on display, the man grabbed his hips and really began to pound him. Alfred bounced in place, his chest grinding painfully into the ground, face chafing. He couldn’t say a word when his cock was stroked again, this time with purpose, firmly, the way he had never dared to touch himself but always wanted to. He gasped and moaned, failing to stop the sounds and knowing for every one he loosed he would lash his back open thrice fold in penance.

    “You love it, don’t’cha, like we knew you would,” said someone in his ear, “Already so close to your undoing.”

    His toes curled in his boots, and he tried to wriggle forwards, away from the hand. Perhaps, he had thought, perhaps if he could get through the ordeal without taking too much pleasure from it, he could be saved. If his body had been used and thrown away, it would be nothing but an assault, out of his hands, shameful but not sinful. This, however, was insurmountable proof of what lay in predatory wait behind his pious heart. The tension had already coiled in his stomach, tightness in his groin, the strange and sloppy pounding of the pulse inside his ass warming him all over until his extremities felt numb and his ears were ringing. It was too much.

    “Ple-please!” he tried, panicking, “please don’t make me cum!”

    Alfred’s lungs were in his throat and his heart was in his cock, thrumming with life as he choked. He was fucked still, relentless, the hand around him pumping gleefully.

    “Come on now, boy, that’s right.”

    The rough pad of a thumb dipped against his slit, slicking him over with his own precum. Everything was so wet and so loud. Whatever they had put in him was dribbling down the back of his perineum, warmed from friction, tickling him strangely between each slap of hips against backside.

    “Please, I can’t, I can’t!”

    He shook his head and wept, thrusting into warm hands wantonly. Someone cupped his cheek and lifted his head up, but he refused to look at them as they wiped his muddy tears away tenderly. The next thrust hit him perfectly in his core, every nerve in his body lighting up as he contracted around the man tightly. His back bowed and he came, hard, the first orgasm of this kind he’d ever experienced. This was nothing like his midnight ruttings, nothing like the way he had felt when he’d first discovered the thrill of self-pleasure years ago. He howled out a moan, pressing his cheek against the hand that cupped it as they kept pumping him, pushing into him, drawing out the pleasure until it was a raw and painful ache of overstimulation that simply wouldn’t stop.

    The man came shortly at his heels, hugging Alfred’s hips close and emptying his balls inside without the courtesy of caring. That too was a strange and evil feeling, one that made him twitch and cower. When the man pulled out the slick of his cum and their lubricant followed, pushed forth as Alfred’s battered body tried to right itself. He shuddered all over as if cold, held there by many hands.

    “Ah, s’alright!” proclaimed the man who’d had him. The others clapped his shoulder as he put himself away. Alfred could do nothing as he was gently pulled upright to sit on his heels, wincing as gravity betrayed him and more jism slipped between his thighs. He looked up at faces blurry through his sticky eyelashes, red faced and reeking of sex. His lips, wet with spittle, were parted softly, gasping in cool night air that burned his lungs, and someone slipped their thumb easily inside, and he let them, only letting fall another tear.

    “Good teeth,” the man commented, “they feed you well at the chapel?”

    Alfred, delirious, tried to respond, his tongue wrapping around the intruding finger as more drool escaped the corners of his mouth. The man smiled.

    “Shame to let this pretty mouth go to waste.”

    “Wait now,” interjected another, “at least give sum’ne else a turn behind.”

    Alfred’s eyes widened, alert again. Surely, surely they could not subject him to this torture more than once?

    He could not even muster the energy to truly panic as more clothing was shucked around him, as his hips were raised again and someone’s thighs slipped beneath. His position was uncomfortable already, the ankle that had been stepped on sharply protesting every movement, and having his legs spread around another set didn’t help any. He whined around the thumb still keeping his jaws apart as another cock pressed between his buttocks.

    It didn’t take much effort for the next man to push inside, and his refilling made Alfred swoon slightly, eyes rolling. He moaned, refocusing his gaze in front of his face as he was presented with another dick. He had never seen one up close like this, an older man’s dick at that, dark and purpled, the skin loose around the head. He wasn’t given time to focus before it was pushed against his lips. He tried to rear back and was held fast, and then the cock inside him began to pull away and he was distracted enough for the man at his front to try again, forcing past his defenses. He gasped and spluttered, nose choked with snot and unable to breathe.

    “Any nippin’ and you lose them pearly whites, clear?”

    He couldn’t nod, wouldn’t have if he could, but he did not bite. It was too much for him to have bitten if he wanted, and as it pushed further down his throat he gagged, frightened. Then the man behind him thrust back inside with a deep groan and he was bucked forwards into it, taking it to the root, his nose buried in sweaty pubic hair. It smelled worse than it looked and he jerked back awkwardly, but thick hands wove into his hair and guided the motion, pulling him out but not enough to be free before forcing him back down again. It felt like he was being crushed, both ends of his body forced towards one another slowly, only backing off to weaken the structure of his being before assaulting him again. He would be collapsed like this, leaking and whining and red with sex, surrounded by jeering men who applauded him as again his balls drew tight and a pathetic second spurt of cum was loosed, a smaller but no less ravaging orgasm taking him.

    Alfred wished his hands were freed, not so much for will of escape now but simply to be able to hold on to something. Plenty of them were holding on to him, after all. Someone was again pawing his chest, still encased in his tunic, but despite this they found his nipples and plucked at them through the fabric. The rough texture of it amplified the pinch and he writhed in place, drawing an appreciative grunt from the man in his ass. Though he was fresh from two orgasms they still stroked his cock, and to remain hard actually hurt but they kept him that way, unable to release again so soon but unable to escape the sensation either. When the second man to have him from behind came, squeezing Alfred’s hips into blue bruises, the one at his front quickened his pace.

    “Use yer tongue a little more, eh?”

    How this could be accomplished he had no idea, for it was as if the cock in his mouth was touching every part of it already, but he wished he could comply if only to make him stop. He was pushing Alfred’s head back and forth rather violently and his brain hurt, shaking in his skull, and his breath was coming shorter and shorter until his vision swirled with unnatural color. Someone must notice, he thought, see how the pink of his cheeks was turning purple, how his chest was growing stiff. They wouldn’t just let him die like this. Surely not.

    But then, what were men like these capable of? Again his mind turned to his Master, glorious and kind, and Alfred keened as best he could around a cock because he wanted to live _so_ badly, to see Him again. Someone else stuffed his ass, and hair was pulled from his scalp as he was kept closer, closer, vision darkening, and Alfred had not been this close to true death since he’d first been rescued on the bloodied streets by a man who towered above the filth below, eyes like black pearls that beheld his sinful soul with such kindness. There was no one here to help him now, and Logarius would spit upon his corpse, were it found.

    Just when he had given in to death, the man tore free of him, and his lungs expanded rapidly with the lack of self-consciousness only natural reflex could afford. As he blinked away the dark, he looked up, right in time for the man to stroke himself to completion right there, thick ropes of cum splattering his face, staining the symbol of the Hunter on his breast. Then man fondling him pulled back with a yelp, having been splashed, and whoever had him from behind pulled him into his lap so Alfred rode him back to chest.

    This position bent his legs to their limits, uncomfortably so, but he could hardly feel them now over the pins and needles. Instead he let himself be hefted up and down, a task that could not have been easy given his heavy build, head falling back as a ragdoll’s upon the shoulder behind it. His cock, still painfully hard, bounced between thigh and belly, what remaining precum he could produce falling free and clear in little droplets across the street.

    “’E’s heavy!” grunted the man, laughing. Someone reached down to gently squeeze some of Alfred’s stomach.

    “Obviously!”

    The squeeze had turned to caress by the time the third man finished inside him, wrapping his arms around Alfred’s chest and grinding his cock inside hard. The position meant he didn’t go as deep, but Alfred still felt each pulse of orgasm as it washed his insides white. By now there were three loads within and he felt warm and gooey all over, like he would turn to sludge. When he was pulled off (carefully, for otherwise he would simply collapse), he was unable to hold it back anymore, a thick gush of cum dripping out between his legs. He whimpered in aroused distress, trying to shift his knees together on the unforgiving gravel, but a touch at his hip paused his attempts.

    He was tired, too tired to fight, even when a pair of fingers trailed up his thigh, scooping along a nice portion of cum, and pressed it back inside his hole. He shifted uncomfortably, whining through his teeth, but his gaze was glassy and his cock twitched. The man dug up inside him and stroked him as before, now with the added heat of fucking and hypersensitivity aiding him. There was no thrusting motions, only long fingers pushed deep as they could go hooking and curling as if to coax another orgasm out of him. Alfred couldn’t imagine how he could come again, but still felt his balls draw tight, wanting.

    “I-I can’t,” he trailed off, jaw hanging loose, still tasting salt in his throat, “not again, I can’t…”

    The memory of their earlier threat surfaced, that perhaps more than fingers and cock would be forced inside, ruining him, and he, beyond all dignity, whined, kicking his toes out.

    “Look at ‘im quiver!”

    Alfred panted wetly, blind and frightened and exhausted, pleasure building and building and building.

    “I don’t- I don’t want-!”

    He cut himself off with a high noise, grated with effort, and he did come, dryly, painfully, but defying all that was right he still felt so good. They worked him through it, just stroking him, pushing at places he could not understand the importance of, until he was begging for them to leave him, to take their fingers away, it hurt, it was too much.

    Whoever had been holding him up let him lay on the cold stone and breathe, eyes shut tight. More belts jungled, and he did not look. In fact he could not look, so tired as he was, even as someone knelt and laid a hand on his hip, nudging him over. He could not be again, not like this, and he was determined not to be, until one of the men yelled, surprised.

    “There! Look, there!”

    The commotion around him immediately shifted focus, and even without seeing what they did, Alfred knew it was a beast. His adrenal glands were overworked and underpaid but they still managed to shock him into awareness one last time, and now, with everyone scrambling for their pitchforks and knives, he was able to push himself slowly between their clamoring legs, away from what they saw. He could smell nothing, clogged with his own sorrows and the stray droplets of cum that had pushed in places they shouldn’t have, but he could hear it now, even with the excited shouting between his attackers, the low and snuffling growls of hunger.

    When he reached the wall of the alley he turned, trying to gauge how close to being murdered with his pants down he was, but the men were all running together towards the lit main street and he could see nothing clear as the bright light of gas lamps cut into his murky vision. There was a chance, then, that the beast would not make it through the crowd and he would be left with both his life and a shot at making it home, but the fact that he was still bound was not lost on him. Alfred was strong, but even at his best he was not strong enough to break well knotted rope with his bare hands, less so now when he was very much at his worst.

    Alfred tried to pushing himself to his feet, but failed less than halfway up, falling hard against a pile of scrap and crying out louder than he had meant to when the landing sent an intimate bolt of agony down his back. His legs were barely regaining their normal blood flow, his ankle twisted oddly, so he had to use his shoulder to steady himself to the wall and tried again, twice more, until he had made it. By now there was a great deal of shouting and crashing from the street, though he was unable to make out anything more. His pants were around his thighs, slipping somewhat now that he was on his feet. He could not run back to the abbey like this, not only for his conscience but for physical ability, but he could do naught else but try.

    As he pushed himself deeper into the darkness, away from the battle, he began to come apart. His hammer and cape were left, precious gifts of the Executioner’s rite, sullied and abandoned. His feet hurt as blood pooled inside them again and he stumbled like a drunk, catching himself in the cheek hard against a wooden barrel. Master Logarius would be waiting for him, for better or worse. His gaze, that which pierced through all sin like a holy lance, would judge Alfred for his sickness, but to be judged by someone as pure was an honor he didn’t deserve. To be executed by His hand would still be better than to die in the gutters like this.

    With a short cry he crouched, a sickening throb of arousal shocking him at the thought. To be set to task by Him, to be executed. Alfred had, without doubt, had dreams of it before, but never had he understood why till this moment, and the realization was the final weight against his floodgate, and as he gasped back tears it broke, and any remaining self-worth he’d been clinging to drained from within.

    There was a box that had at one point been held with steel bands crushed up against a dark house. The metal was rusted, but it held when he unsteadily pressed his wrists to it, unsure of how to get the correct angle to saw at his bonds. Frustrated, and hearing sounds of the night that he could not identify, he resorted to jamming the rope against it and hoping it would catch. It did, but by the time he was able to begin unwinding himself his hands were soaked with blood. His shoulders popped when he drew his hands forward again, and he shook so badly it took him longer than it ever should have to do up the drawstring of his trousers, badly, as they were cut ragged, though the lens of urgency stretched the feeling of seconds to hours, alone and unprotected. He tried to wipe the sweat from his brow and mixed semen with the ichor into his hair.

    There was never any mistaking the path home. Alfred could have been thrown into the sea and he would still know which way to swim. It called to him, endlessly, so that sometimes when he arrived there he could not remember at all the journey. He had expected to stumble back in darkness, but as the spires of the chapel rose above the blackened rooftops there came a glow of torchlight, and out from of the abbey he found himself faced with several of his brethren returning home. It was only then he realized the red glow that tinted everything was not his own bloody eyes but the morning sun behind him. He had wandered in his suffering longer than he could have imagined.

    Amidst the crowd was He, which struck Alfred immediately, for Logarius rarely ventured beyond the cloister these days, and he was looking at everyone with intent. Alfred forced his legs to bring him out of the shadows and could make it no further, collapsing to his knees. He was here now, and his last wish was granted. He prayed Logarius would make him suffer in death, for he deserved it. Yet, as his Master broke the shocked ring of Executioners who had rushed to him, his gaze was wrought with only concern.

    “Dear child, what has been done to you?”

    Unable to take the kindness, Alfred fainted, the terror of having met a true Saint clutching at his heart.


End file.
